


You've Got Something With Me

by Paint Me a Symphony (youngerdrgrey)



Series: You've Got... a Series From Me [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-07-21
Updated: 2009-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/Paint%20Me%20a%20Symphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems they've got more than a friend out of each other. What they got exactly, and whatever that entails is the question. All they know is that they most definitely have something. Camteen. - SEQUEL to You've Got a Friend in Me -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Signs

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel begins three weeks after the last one ended. Step into the shoes of Allison Cameron for a day. The hiccups were treated, but that treatment only brought on new problems. Problems that she cannot so easily identify and label. Well, not at the beginning of the chapter at least. Read and review.

Signs are everywhere. Signs control life pretty much. They tell you where to use the restroom, who is who, even the very day you were born has a sign. People have them too. But, not as obviously as you would like. If only Remy Hadley had come with a sign attached to her. Maybe one that read: 'Careful: Addiction is Highly Plausible', or a 'Stay The Hell Away'; something that could have warned you about this behavior that set in. Actually, now that you think about it, she did have a sign once upon a time. It had only read two digits, but shouldn't the blazing 1-3 have given you a clue as to how much bad news getting to know this doctor would be? And, now, it's not even that you know her too well. It's quite the opposite. You don't know her. You never see her. She's avoiding you, for Pete's sake. All because of that stupid slip-up, that stupid moment where your brain shut off and you caved in to the most idiotic, whimsical cure you have ever heard.

_"I know a way to get rid of hiccups," you had whispered._

_"Right, you have mad hiccup-killing powers," she returned sarcastically._

_"Wanna see?" you had asked._

_"Go ahead, I doubt it'll work anyway," she replied._

_You stepped forward then, and threw all your inhibitions to hell. You did something you hadn't even considered yourself capable of doing. You_ _kissed_ _her. And, after that, what did she say?_

_"My hiccups are definitely gone."_

What was that to say about your kissing abilities? They left people without any air in the lungs (even the lodged kind)? Or were they so frightening that it scared the hiccups out of her? Either way, you didn't stay around long enough to figure it out. Nor did she try to find you to let you know.

Now, you stand in the middle of the doctor's lounge the evil scene took place in, alone, and uncertain. Uncertain of pretty much everything. The thought of labeling everything around you is so very tempting that you want to go raid the nurse's station for some labels and tag everything and everyone. You'll tag House "ass", Cuddy "mommy", Foreman "ass-lite", and Chase--Chase!

Oh, God!

Chase. Robert Chase. Your boyfriend Robert Chase. It has been about three weeks since last you two had a decent conversation. That is most definitely not good, under any circumstances.

You whip out your phone, dialing his number in. It rings a few times before it goes to voicemail.

"Hello, you've reached Dr. Robert Chase. Feel free to leave a message with your name and number after the beep. And, uh, if this is Al, do you think you can call me back? I've been calling for quite some time now. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. Just, talk to me," comes the Australian's voice. You can physically feel the guilt pulling the phone closer to your ear.

"Chase- Rob - it's me, Alison. I'm sorry I've been out of touch lately. My mind has been… occupied. Look, you didn't do anything, and I'm so sorry you felt like it was your fault," you apologize profusely, "I'm feeling much better now. How about dinner, tonight? There's this great cafe that just opened on Main Street. I'll make us a reservation."

You nod to yourself, proud of your plan. It will be the perfect distraction. A night of food, fun, and conversation with Chase is exactly what you need to snap you out of this Hadley-induced slump. You can spend an entire three to four hours without thoughts of her invading your mind. It will be heaven.

"See you then, Rob," you conclude, flipping your phone shut. You look at the time and figure you can make the reservation for your usual time. Eight-thirty was always your time for earlier date nights in your relationship. It should do fine now. You stow your phone again and rush out to get ready.

You suppose signs are even more helpful at restaurants. Especially restaurants that have signs that say things like 'stood-up', 'long-term', and 'blind-date' on tables. After a good twenty minutes of sitting at your table for two, your waiter returns with your drink of choice and the first sign of the bunch. He places it on the table and gives you a sad smile. You cannot bring yourself to return it.

"I was not stood up," you inform him.

"Correct," affirms a voice from behind you. You turn quickly, seeing Remy of all people standing behind your table.

"Huh?" is your unintelligent reply.

"Chase called up to the diagnostics department to say he wouldn't be able to make it," she continues. You still don't really get it.

"Why'd he call there?" you wonder.

"He figured you'd be up there. Kutner was the one who got the call. He didn't remember it until after we did another round of stupid tests, though, so, sorry you had to sit here like the dumped and ditched," she apologizes.

"It's okay. I suppose I should have just scheduled talking instead of dinner. Chase is better at making time for that," you mention. She gives an absent sort of nod. You take this time to study her. It has been a while since you've seen her up close. Always in motion, and avoiding you, makes it nearly impossible to get a glimpse of her for real these days.

 _She looks the same,_  you note. No big changes, and, for that, you smile. You didn't miss anything during the last three weeks.

Her throat clears awkwardly, and you are brought back to the café. You cleanse yours as well, after you notice how awkward it must be for her to be stared at by both you and the waiter.

"Would you like to sit down?" you inquire, motioning towards Chase's chair.

She shakes her head.

"No, I'm actually just passing through to relay the message. I've got reservations of my own," she shares. You can't say you're surprised.

When Eric Foreman rounds the corner and plants a soft kiss on her lips, though, you decide you are able to admit it now.

"You guys are really, I mean you didn't--"

Rumor had it that they had broken up. Everyone knew about it. Yet, it doesn't seem to be true.

"Foreman," Remy warns softly.

"What?" he responds, "It's just Cameron. You'll keep it a secret, right?"

As both pairs of eyes land on you, you find yourself nodding for the umpteenth time today. It shouldn't be too hard to keep it a secret. To share something, you'd have to actually admit it exists. This you definitely do not want to admit.

"Sure," you croak. Foreman seems pleased, but Remy does not. She seems almost awkward. She has never been awkward around you before.

"Well, uh, we should probably get going," Remy announces.

"Right, right, of course you do," you comment.

"Hope you still have a good night," Remy says.

"I'm sure it's important if Chase canceled for it," Foreman adds.

Your mind isn't really there, but you agree with him anyway.

"I suppose it was. Have a good night you two," you dismiss.

Foreman smiles at you, wrapping his arm around Remy's waist and leading her from the table. Your eyes follow them through the building.

You are only brought back by the clink of the sign being changed to a setting you didn't think even existed: 'mistress abandoned'. You need just one more glance at it to stand up and leave the café.

Once outside, you notice that Remy and Foreman are still close. The two are at her car, engaged at the lips. You silently wonder how many awkward trials in doctors' lounges it took to get there.

A sigh leaves your lips. You turn away, towards your car.

 _She does have a sign_ , you admit to yourself. It is right there, bright and shining, on the blue-jean jacket that you can see swishing away into the car now. It's a sign you'd be more familiar with as a maid than a doctor, but after working with House, you at least should have noticed it sooner. How hard can it be for a medical doctor to read three, very simple words:

"Do Not Disturb."


	2. A Pair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy is "you"

Listen to the whisper of the gentle wind. What does it say? Who is it speaking to? Does it share its origin? Or is it as mystic as you are? Listen to the canyons as they sing. Where did they learn their song? How did it come to reach your ears? And, what do these two things have in common?

Well, they're all you can hear now sitting in the bio-dome of some museum or another. The name escapes you at this point in time, but you are sure you have been here before. There is something about this building that seems familiar to you. All the sounds and the scents beckon to you, bringing you deeper and deeper into the environment. It is almost… hypnotizing.

"You enjoying yourself?" comes a rich, Southern accent. You nod, offering a small smile to your dear friend.

"Yeah. Must be something left over from my wandering stages," you affirm.

Lyla, your old college pal, beams at that. Your wandering stage has been over for quite some time. She would know, having been the last person near you during those faithful three months spent abroad, backpacking and hitchhiking your way through Europe.

"There will always be something left over from those days, sweetie. They were good times," she says, "Almost as good as them times you told me about when I first got here."

You duck your head, letting your dark tresses mask your face. Of course she brings that up again.

"Lyla, we are not talking about her," you declare.

"I know we aren't.  _I_  am. Sounds like a mighty fun girl that Alison Cameron," Lyla goes on.

"Not really. She's not the type of fun you'd enjoy," you tell her.

"She could be, if you just gave her a chance," Lyla hints.

"She's dating someone, and so am I. She's also straight," you point out.

"If she's so straight, why'd she kiss you?" Lyla asks.

"To get rid of my hiccups. It was a very effective method," you explain.

"She did not kiss you just because you interrupted her rant with little gasps, Remy. She wanted to kiss you. Probably had for a long time if she took that as her opener," informs the amused red-head.

"You don't know Allie, she-"

"Let me know her then. Introduce me to her," Lyla suggests.

"How on Earth would I do that?" you inquire.

"You turn around, wave her over here and say, 'This is Lyla'."

You do, in fact, turn around, and your eyes are graced with the sight of Alison Cameron and her Australian boyfriend. The space between the two of them is noticeable, and you wonder for a moment why that makes you feel a bit better. You track them a bit longer before you decide that speaking with them is the last thing you want to do. No need to make things any more complicated. Sadly, your friend doesn't seem to get the message.

"Is there a doctor in the house?" Lyla calls loudly, attracting the attention of both passing blondes.

"Lyla, shush!" you demand, but it is too late.

"Thirteen?" you hear Chase say. You give him a small smile and a wave. He takes this as an invitation and comes over with Alison in tow.

"Doctors Chase, Cameron," you acknowledge.

"Remy, hi," Alison greets.

"Who's your friend?" Chase asks looking at Lyla. His tone is full of implications. Although you would very much enjoy telling him off for this, you simply place your hand on Lyla's arm and push her forward a bit.

"This is Lyla. She's an old friend who stopped by for a visit," you introduce.

"Pleasure to meet you," Lyla coos, extending her hand towards Chase and Chase alone. You roll your eyes at her behavior.

"Same," Chase replies, as he shakes it. Their hands stay interwoven after the shake, and you take it upon yourself to move this little meet and greet along.

"Lyla, these are Doctors Chase and Cameron from the hospital," you continue, even though she knows who they are already.

"I caught that by the blonde hair and yummy accent, sweetie," Lyla remarks, eyes not straying from Chase's face. You clear your throat. As always, Lyla gets the wrong idea.

"You're a surgeon, right?" Lyla checks. Chase nods, "My doctor did something with my knee the other day in the surgery that I'm a bit worried about. Do you think you could take a look at it?"

"I'm sure I could, if Al would excuse me for a moment," Chase prompts. Alison smiles.

"Go right ahead," she says.

With the accented fellows gone, the room feels considerably tighter. The sounds of the wind and the man-made canyons have melted away, leaving nothing but you and the blonde you have been attempting to avoid for quite some time.

"How have you been?" inquires Alison.

"Okay," you respond.

"What about Foreman? How is he doing?" she adds.

"He's fine too," you say.

"Are you purposely answering in such clipped phrases, or what?" she probes.

"Sorry, this is kind of awkward," you admit.

"It doesn't have to be awkward between us, Remy," she states.

"How can it not be awkward? This is the second time this year I've been here," you share.

"In the museum?" she asks.

"In an awkward spot after a kiss that should have never happened," you clarify.

"Oh."

You can hear the whisper again when silence follows her statement. It sounds different somehow. Rushed, tense, almost like it's going twelve times faster.

"See, it's awkward," you announce softly.

"It still doesn't have to be," she insists, "I was simply using an unorthodox technique to cure a patient. It happens all the time. It's nothing to freak out about."

You know that is a lie. It is definitely something to freak out about. It was a kiss after all. An amazing kiss that didn't last nearly long enough, yet, lasted much too long at the same time. It most definitely was  _not_  simply curing a patient. You are sure of that. You won't call her on it, though.

"Yeah, you're right. It worked, anyway," you agree.

"I seem to recall you stating that," she mentions. Your face flushes slightly. That was not your proudest moment.

"I apologize for that," you say.

"No need, let's just put it behind us. It's been three weeks, and we are adults. I think we can handle forgetting a little exchange between friends," she deduces.

"I suppose we can," you conclude.

She smiles, and you return it, just as Chase and Lyla get back over to you.

"That feels much better," praises Lyla, "You're amazing."

"I'm just your average surgeon," Chase humbly replies.

"It was still amazing that you could do that without needing any knives, or equipment. Thanks," she drones.

"You're welcome," he says, then he looks to Alison, "We better keep going. We have dinner at six."

Alison nods with a sad smile.

"Alright. Well, it was good seeing you again, Remy. And, nice meeting you, Lyla," Alison comments.

"You as well," Lyla politely returns.

A small grin towards you, and she is off. Once the two are out of earshot, you turn and smack your friend on the arm.

"Ow!" she exclaims.

"Why did you do that?" you hiss.

Lyla shrugs, mentioning, "Four simply isn't a pair."


	3. Words, Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator: Remy

You had it coming. Really, you did. All this time juggling thoughts of those two brilliant doctors has led you to this moment; that one moment when the oddest and most nonsensical thing possible tumbles from your lips like drool off a newborn's chin. It all just goes to show you that you need to be focused more on the task at hand, not everything else. Surely if you were focused, you wouldn't have said "Cold" like an idiot.

Then again, the room certainly has that feel to it. From your skin to his lips, there is a tense chill. God, his lips, simply freezing slabs of skin that work their way over your arm, sliding sneakily until they rest at the side of your shirt's strap. Your hands itch to pull them away, but you know it would only bring up questions. Besides, your declaration seems to be doing a fine job of that on its own.

"Cold?" he repeats mockingly, "I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be feeling hot."

He pecks at your skin, searching for some sort of reaction to disprove your comment. He wants heat and passion, something you typically have no problem supplying. Tonight does not seem to be your night, or rather his night.

"Rem?" he checks, pulling away ever so slightly. His chocolate eyes reach yours and something about you breaks away. Perhaps it is the silencing factor, the part of you that keeps you from looking a fool by speaking. It could even be the reasoning mechanism that has allowed this relationship to last as long as it has. No matter what it is, it's departure makes it harder to hear the words coming from his mouth, and harder to care that you're missing them.

"Sorry," you whisper, "The bed, it just feels a little cold tonight."

The words leave you easily enough. Yet another pathetic excuse that you have stored up over the years. They prove to be quite effective in getting rid of countless people. Eric does not seem to be one of them. He grins at you, before he transfers more of his body weight onto you.

"What do you say we warm it up then?" he offers. Oddly enough, the thought of him warming up your bed makes your toes curl in and around. They circle slightly in a familiar motion of discomfort and anxiety. It is not often you do that. You reckon that is why he pays it no mind.

"I don't know. I'm not really in the mood," you conclude. He tilts his head in the way that should be adorable and his fingers go back to their earlier motions. He really is trying hard tonight. He speaks to you in that velvet tone, taunting you, prying into that little mind of yours.

"Not yet. Don't you think I could easily get you there though?"

The ceiling looks a bit brighter when your eyes graze it halfway through the second sentence. Of course he believes he can turn you on. So confident in his abilities, so proud of himself; how ever could a weak woman like you not bend into him? How could you possibly not quiver in your panties when his thin digits rake your thigh?

Startlingly, those sarcastic questions turn into real ones. What is wrong with you? This should be the perfect thing after a long day of dealing with Greg House. You should be pooling sheets under your freshly painted nails, sucking in breath between tightly clasped teeth, and seeing nothing but the nonexistent flecks of dust in the air above you as he reminds you why you never made it to that Christmas party so long ago. On the other hand, it was just this that drove you into her arms the first time, wasn't it? The feel of him all around you, the way he treated you, the fact that you enjoyed it more than you expected yourself to. Back then, he was Foreman, the cocky co-worker who for some reason actually was deluded into thinking he had some power over House. Now, he's Eric, still that same cocky co-worker, but also the person you invite into your bed regularly. He is the person who puts a smile on your face with small gestures and calls you ridiculous pet names when he thinks you are asleep. He is-the guy with his hands on your boob.

"Wait."

A raised eyebrow covers the span of your vision. You cough weakly, feebly, turning your body slightly from him. Having him mostly on top of you stops you from going far, but the message should get across in that move anyway.

"T-this isn't really working so well right now. Think we could reschedule?" you propose.

"Reschedule? Remy, this isn't a clinic visit, or some dinner at a crappy diner. It's sex," he states.

"Eric, I'm not doing this right now," you assert. His brow scrunches together as he pulls back from you. His knees rest on either side of your still body.

"Is something wrong?" he wonders, "Was it House today? Remy, he's just being an ass like usual."

You shake your head, mumbling, "It's not House bothering me."

"So something is bothering you. What is it?"

"Currently, your questions."

A new coldness creeps its way under the doorframe, lurking in the low plush of the auburn carpeting for the perfect moment to attack. It waits so evenly that you almost can't tell it's there. Forgetting about it proves to be hard when his hands retreat from your stomach. The only contact between the two of you comes from the denim of your jeans brushing slightly against the fabric of his slacks.

"I am only trying to help you, to be there for you. When something is happening, you can't just push me away all the time. Is it the trial? Are you declining? Did you eat some bad food at lunch? Or, did the patient pee on you and force you to change your clothes? I want to be here for you, and I want to know what is going on in your life," he relates.

"There is nothing going on in my life. Nothing but the drug trial, which you ask about, work, where you're there, and our relationship and I have a sinking sensation you know something about what is going on in that little section too," you growl.

The coldness must have moved to the spot right to the left of your bed, because you certainly detect it under your toes as they touch the floor. Your shivering breath wraps around you, carrying it through the rest of your body. Your fingers ball then, touching your palm the way your wrists touch the sides of your ribcage. Another dot on the wall holds your interest while the bed caves and rocks with the shift of his body away from you.

"You know, sometimes, you can be a real…"

"What! Just what?" you snap.

"Bitch," he barks, "You won't let me help you, talk to you. I'm basically a glorified bed buddy, my only bonus being that I get to eat a little something here every now and again too. I really do not understand you, Remy."

For that, you honestly cannot blame him. Him understanding you would require you to actually speak with him about the thoughts that dwell in your mind. You would have to mention your fears, your wants, and possibly even a bit of your past. The need to know rule has brought you far in life, through med school and internships and crappy rotations in Miami. Are you just supposed to abandon that? He is not that important.

_Oh gosh, did I really just think that?_  You ask yourself. Unimportant? The guy you have been dating all this time falls in the category of unimportant. What does that say about you? What does that say about the other people in your life? Where does Kutner rank? Where's Taub, or Cuddy? And, while you're asking the difficult questions, where does Allison place? Is she unimportant? Can unimportant people dominate a person's mind the way she does yours? If she wanted to, she could have you wrapped around her finger in an instant. You know that to be true. The only thing truer than that sad fact is that you know she would never want to.

_And you don't want her to, Rem_ , your mind reminds you.  _The last thing you need is a person depending on you and doting on you the way she would. You had a mother once, and Allie will undoubtedly be just like her!_

"Without the mental disorder and psychotic yelling," you add in a low tone. In the silence of the bedroom, it reaches Eric's ears. The rounded cartilage pulls closer. Meanwhile, his eyes grow curious and anxious.

"What do those things have to do with me understanding the woman I'm dating?" he wants to know.

Your reply goes as far as, "I think you should go."

This thought comes suddenly.  _Space_. It's always good for people, gives them time and room to breathe. It allows them the necessary break so as not to make an ass of themselves and destroy what has been built.

His wide stare drills into you. You blink, turning back to your favorite wall spot.  _Oh right_. It occurs to you now that some people don't respond well to the notion.

"You're kicking me out?"

"I am suggesting that you leave. There is a difference," you explain.

"Not a big one," he inserts.

"But it is a difference. If you'd like, I'll go and you can stay. How does that sound to you?"

The disdain in your voice drips down onto the edge of the bed, landing somewhere with the abandoned happiness of the evening. Together they blend into the concoction of frustration and utter stupidity that leads him into saying,

"I  _love_  that idea. Why don't you just turn around and walk out? Same way you walked out on your family, walked out on every relationship you ever had, walked out on the job, and attempted to walk out on this life you've been given. It seems you're pretty damn good at it by now," he compliments.

You're blinking rapidly at this point, as well as swallowing every few seconds. Those freshly painted nails of yours dig into your palm. The feel of it is nearly soothing compared to the stale lump in your throat and dull pain in your head. Why did he have to say that stuff?

Your feet slip into your shoes just as your hands grasp your jacket. If he wants to be a jackass, he can be one in there.

"You say you don't understand me, yet you're the one hard to understand, Eric. Claim to be all about me and there for me, yet you turn around and shovel shit at me a second later," you mention.

"I only dish out what I receive. Think of this relationship as a give and take," he taunts.

"What relationship?" you hiss before the resonating slam of your front door is all that is left of that exchange.

You don't bother to lock the door since Eric is still inside. He is going to think you will turn around and go back in. All men seem to have that thought in their heads. You should have then about ten minutes to get as far away from your home that you can then. You gaze over your body, sizing up your supplies.

You have keys, but your car is in the shop _._  Lipstick _._  Twenty-five cents. You reprimand yourself,  _the wallet would have been smart to grab, Remy._  Finally, your hands catch onto your cell phone, nestled into the back pocket of the thin leather in your hands. In any other situation, the person you would call would be Eric. Without him, very few people come to mind as rescuers. The married one falls from the list with the easily excited hot on tails. Two people remain and your fingers inch towards the correct buttons as you try to regulate your breathing.

You cannot believe you are doing this.

**\---**

You can almost hear the comments on the tip of his tongue.

_"I suppose doctors do still make House calls"_ , or maybe  _"Aren't we supposed to go inside for a booty call?"_

He has to make you pay significantly for this intrusion into his daily life. The very fact that you called him out of everyone should warrant some serious harassment. You add up all the factors working against you and steel yourself for the stings. What you get instead surprises you.

"What gives?" House asks simply.

You roll your shoulders, unsure how to answer his simple two-word question. It would not be hard to tell him, but it would most definitely defeat the purpose of the fake break-up if you spill that the cripple left his apartment to pick you up from a fight at yours. The chances of him dropping you on a curb after hearing it are ridiculously high. To the most of your knowledge, curbs are not exactly cushioned for falls.

"There was a rat," you lie.

"Of all the things that could possibly and realistically drive you from your apartment, 'rat' is what you come up with. Have I taught you nothing?" mocks your boss.

"You taught me how to break into apartments, destroy the trust of plenty, get a woman to give up a great job opportunity, and where to keep the sugar to really piss people off. Decent reasons as to why my boss needed to pick me up at midnight were not on the list," you retort.

"Then how about a not so decent reason, like the truth that you apparently find too embarrassing to share? If this is one of those midnight womanly hygiene runs, I'm ditching you at the next light," he warns.

"It's not. Look, I just needed to get away from my place for a while. You were the only person I could think of who might be awake and drunk enough to come pick me up," you reason.

"For your information, I was not drunk tonight," he declares, "It's Tuesday, that's double Vicodin night."

"Drunk, drug induced stupor, what's the difference?"

"There's no 'unk' in the second one."

"There is a 'stupid' if you jumble up the letters a bit," you challenge.

"As well as a 'don't decuin'," he returns.

"Decuin isn't a word, House."

"Next you're going to say 'reven' isn't a word."

"It isn't!"

"I'm not a psychologist, but I think your fascination with words tonight is a way of not thinking about your own issues," he says.

"You are the last person I want advise from on facing problems," you admit.

"Not giving you advise, just pointing out that you, Thirteen, are avoiding."

"And what do you want me to do about that?"

"Stop running, face it, and never call me after seven unless someone is dying," he recites.

"If I'm facing my problems, I'm going to need plenty of alcohol," you drone.

His lips quirk into what could almost be described as a smile.

"Lucky for you I know the perfect place!" he exclaims.

The car turns sharply to the left and you find yourself wishing you had just walked.

Your eyes scan the building in front of you. It seems familiar almost. There is a certain feel about it that reminds you of someone, though you can't place exactly who.

"Enough standing here, time to take some action. Get out of my car and go to 17B. I'll see you at work tomorrow, crack of… one-thirty. If you're there a moment before, Mistress Buzzkill has done the job right," House shoos.

"This isn't Cuddy's place, is it?" you inquire, suddenly wary of where he decided to drop you off.

"You'd know if this was Cuddy's. The entire place reeks of mother-daughter family time," he grumbles. You smile at him.

"Thanks for the ride, House," you thank.

He rolls his eyes, muttering, "Don't mention it."

You slide off the leather seats and head up the walkway of the building. Someone lives here that he wants you to talk to. Knowing him, it's probably Wilson's place. You should turn around, possibly just go to a bar and do what House does on most nights. He definitely has the right idea. Then again, maybe a talk with Wilson will do you some good. He seems to be able to help everyone else's problems. Why not yours?

Your balled fist knocks at the wooden doorframe. You wait, shuffling your feet slightly. There is no sound beyond the door and you aren't sure whether to take that as him sleeping, or no one being home.

_This is a bad idea. It's late and it's rude to just drop in on someone, especially someone you don't know that well._

You turn, ready to leave, when you hear footsteps from inside. Listening to them, you take note that the feet sound a bit too light to belong to James Wilson. In fact, they sound quite feminine almost as if- _shit!_

You squeeze your eyes together tight.

_Don't be who I think it is. Oh, let it be someone else. Let it be anyone else. Just not-_

"Remy?" you hear.

_Uh oh._


	4. Words, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a recap, last chapter had Remy, fresh from an argument with Foreman, riding around in House's car. He dropped her off at a place that turned out be Cameron's.

_Uh oh._

During your slow revolution, you wonder why she did not pop into your mind as a possibility. For as long as you have known him, House has proven countless times that all his problems go to three people. Of the three, two could be 'mistress' anything and only one wouldn't have their breast size somewhere in the reference. At this point, perhaps Cuddy would be the better option.

"Allie!" you grind out with fake enthusiasm. Allie. Allison. Cameron. Shit.

Your eyes hone in on her cyan pair. What follows cannot be described as a staring match, in your opinion. It resembles more of a tango, a slight struggle and flare on both parts that winds up scorching parts of you both, one being your will to look away. Those eyes are as they always have been. Hypnotizing. Mesmerizing. Two swirling pools, not like the honey that most people say in their metaphors. Hers are that first thing that catches your eye on a walk down the street. When you have that half-there feeling going on and you suddenly find yourself grounded, fully somewhere, due to that one thing on the side of the road that brings you to a place unlike where you started. They are that something that sparks and grabs hold, making you focus less on whatever is in there (your head) and more out here (the day). Her eyes are the catalyst, and your own soul seems to be somewhere.

You shake your head. You need to stay in Princeton right now.

"What are you doing here?" she requests finally.

You almost respond with a crappy neighborhood excuse. It would certainly be cliché enough to break some of the ice between you. But, do you really want it broken? You could let that ice stay there. It can serve as a nice barrier to remind both of you that this nothing more than a soft friendship. It has a purpose, you decide. If you give it time to float in the waters, maybe it can freeze up a bit more of the wading current. It can build you a bridge out of this dangerous land of trips and traps that is 'transition'.

"Long night," you announce.  _Vague_. She can draw her own conclusions.

"Would you like to come in?" she invites, "Friends don't let friends wander the streets at twelve thirteen in the morning."

"Most friends don't answer the door at twelve thirteen in the morning," you comment.

"True. I suppose I'm better than most friends," she says off-handedly.

_Is that meant to have a double meaning? Is she trying to say something?_

You protest, "I don't know. I wouldn't want to interrupt your night, disturb you, or Chase-"

"Not here."

You force down a smile. What does that mean? Are those two still on the rocks? Did they break up? Maybe you have a- _Don't even go there!_  You shriek.

"He isn't?" you check.

The blonde softly answers with "He is very busy these days. Last time he was over here was that day we bumped into you and your friend at the museum. I haven't seen much of Rob since then."

"It's been a week, Allie."

"That it has," she affirms. You recognize the shuffle in her gaze, the avoidance of contact. It will be awkward if you go inside. Neither of you will want to admit it, but it will be. She will feel out of place in her own home, and you will be the equivalent of a bush on Pluto. It is a very bad idea. A very bad idea that you cannot risk turning down.

You nod slowly. Your gaze flickers beyond her form. She steps aside, a tight, slight grin on her face. You move forward, crossing into the land that is Allison Cameron. In her domain, you are the speck of dirt in the center of the computer monitor; not quite bad enough to wipe away, but not slight enough to completely ignore.

It occurs to you that this is the first time you have been in her apartment. She has been in yours twice. Both times she entered with a stolen key and made you feel terrible. Yet, she is probably the best guest you've had there since you moved into that place.

"May I offer you something to drink?" she inquires.

"Only if I may offer you something in return," you reply.

She responds, "What could you offer me?"

That was a stupid comment, really it was. It had rolled off your tongue so easily. Now, you have to think about it. Now, you have to think about all the things that could be there. You already offered her friendship. She accepted it gladly the last time, and it worked out for the both of you. You could offer her food, but it is her home you're in. Besides, that has already been done. Furthermore, you do not much care for the thought of offering what your inner-House is begging you to. You rack your mind for something, anything, that won't be taken the wrong way. When nothing works correctly, you turn your focus to the mantle.

"Nice flowers," you compliment.

"Robert them for me," she informs. You step to them, additionally taking a whiff of them. The scent is so floral, so earthy. You notice the negative reaction a moment too late.

" _Achoo_!"

The silence that follows is eerily reminiscent of another time. You cover your nose the same way you once covered your mouth. You note, bitterly, that these things only happen around her.

Without thinking [at least, you think it's without thinking], she says, "I know a way to stop sneezing."

Your nose is not the only thing feeling odd now. A strange sensation of tingling, anxiety travels through your bones. What is it with this woman and cures?

_She's a doctor, Remy. It's kind of what she does_ , you tell yourself. Something seems off in that thought though. House did once say she had an obsession with fixing the damaged. Perhaps that is all this is. You are the damaged, dying girl standing in her living room and she simply is offering to fix it. It's nothing. It is absolutely nothing.

"I-I mean, I know what I could do to fix it and make it go away," she backtracks.

"I'm fine."

"Great, Allison," she breathes, "We said we weren't going to talk about and I said basically the exact same thing from that day. I apologize. I do not know what possessed me to say that. It'd be like mentioning brain tumors to House, or Tuesdays to Chase. It was a lapse in control over my vocal.... Way to make things awkward, Allison. You're an eff'ing genius."

This self-deprecating bit proves to be oddly comical. The way her fingers flutter, while her talking speed hitches up; she's adorable. Luckily for her, your nature demands you save all things adorable, even from themselves.

"Apparently, focusing on words means that you're avoiding something," you share, changing the subject slightly.

"And what would I possibly be avoiding?" Allison prompts.

"I don't know maybe something that happened three weeks ago, in the doctor's lounge. Something that currently has you so strung out after a single word," you hint.

"I do believe that would be you doing the avoiding. You steered clear of me after that, for quite a while," she declares.

"I'm not hiding from you anymore," you state.

"And why is that?"

There are so many reasons. You like seeing her and talking to her. You have to admit, she kind of lights up everything. Talking to Foreman just is not the same. You miss her. You care about her. In short, she is important. To the world she may be one person, but to you, she's something. As you play with that thought, another comes to you. All of this, all of these little confessions, is definitely not the type of thing you tell someone at twelve twenty-nine in the morning.

You settle for a simple "Hiding doesn't help."

"Help what?" she prods.

"Anything," you respond, "It helps absolutely nothing to hide from people, to hide from issues, to hide from subjects. If anything, we should be openly discussing your… cure."

"Which one? My cure for sneezing was literally walking away from the plant," she tells you.

"Your cure for hiccups, Allison, with whatever it was you were saying before I started hiccupping. You were going to tell me then and you never got the chance to. Why not tell me now?" you urge.

"Where is this coming from?" she demands, "Did you come here just for me to tell you what I tried to say four weeks ago?"

_No, I came because Foreman is frustrating, and House is an ass that loads everything off onto other people._

"It seems to be the end result," you conclude.

"That is not the way things work, Remy. You have to give something to get something."

"What can I give? What can I possibly give, Allison?"

She laughs, "I asked you that remember?"

You shake your head. You two are talking in circles. Not even circles, you're talking in oblongs. It looks like a five-year-old kid drew them. They suck. This sucks. You cannot handle this right now. From the looks of it, neither can she.

"Can you just give me a ride home?" you plead, voice tired.

"Can't you drive yourself?"

You sigh, knowing one thing you can offer.

"I sort of had a ride," you explain, "A crappy, idiotic, and high ride."

You can see the light bulb click in her mind. The name is on the tip of her tongue, but she does not speak it. Instead, she slips her feet into her slippers and scoops up her keys from the same ledge with the plant.

The same coldness from before follows you into her car. It is no longer dormant, now it is loud, angry, aggressive, choking you and strangling you. You shiver and find it is hard to breathe with it there. Your eyes mist just a bit. You tell yourself it is the lack of oxygen getting to you. You watch the road outside your window after that.

"Thanks for the ride back," you manage when at last you reach your building. She drives away, dragging along with her the suffocating tundra.

You march up the steps. Your thoughts keep you company. You get the idea that they will be very depressing company tonight, especially with work in the morning.

Scratchy key sounds do not really drown them out, nor do the sounds of the radio when you turn that on. Moments later, you find something to make your mind stop racing; your boyfriend.

You stutter, "You're still here?"

"I wasn't going to leave without settling this. We need to talk," he insists.

"Please, not tonight," you whisper, slinking towards the bedroom.

"Why not tonight? Are you too drunk to handle it now? We need to discuss what is going on with you."

"Goddamnit, we are not doing this right now! I am in an even worse mood than when I left here. My head is spinning, and I have way too much going on to have this conversation with you. I wasn't out getting drunk, or cheating on you, or whatever other ideas you occupied yourself with for the time I was gone. I was just having… getting air. I was talking and thinking, and getting even more fucking frustrated than before," you spit.

"Was it important, whatever you talked about?" he has to know. You think back to what you realized, back to what you remember her saying four weeks ago.

_"I was just thinking about you and me…. When you turned into my hand, crying… there were these thoughts, thoughts I'd never had before, thoughts I'd never expected. Only, I sort of did expect them because our friendship is very weird and very different. Look, Remy, what I've been trying to say is--"_

"No. It was probably nothing," you say, "Just, um, just words."


End file.
